


In That Sleep Of Death (What Dreams Will Come)

by allthekingsmen (anglophileprussian)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Inception, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Reference to Torture, References to attempted suicide, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4832375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglophileprussian/pseuds/allthekingsmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo is the best and finding and keeping secrets. His problems lay more in the idea of letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a [kink meme prompt](http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=81280#cmt81280) that I kind of ran away from. This makes no overt references to the film Inception, using only the mechanics of dream sharing. When creating this, I imagined that it existed in the same universe as the film and tried to keep it in line with such. If you have any questions about the world, please let me know!

He is called in because they say Napoleon Solo cannot be broken.

It is not an unusual skill in the CIA but Solo is, without a doubt, the best in the business. His track record as a Forger is almost spotless, but it is as a Courier that he truly excels. No matter who has tried, no one has ever managed to extract anything from him.

Of course, it is impossible to know what he knows. Perhaps that is why he is treated with so much deference - so much fear, by the Agency. No one wants to bring him in again, but in the end, there is always something too dangerous to be written down. His mind is the only safe they can trust.

It is U.N.C.L.E. that brings him in again this time. They pretend they don't remember what happened last time, but Solo smiles and remembers everything. That is his curse.

 

 

 

_"I must say that in surprised by your performance. Your mission to retrieve the stolen nuclear plans was a complete success on paper"_

_"I'm surprised that you got Sanders to go along with this. It doesn't sound like his kind of thing."_

_"You shouldn't be so cynical, Mr. Solo. The united States has shown full support for international cooperation"_

_"That's new."_

_Waverly never seems particularly bothered by Solo's particular brand of insolence. It is a trait that many other people wish they had as their own. When particularly annoyed, Solo could become almost ruthlessly annoying. His partner, with his ticking fingers and sharp glare, is an easy target._

_"What is it we're doing in Turkey?" Solo gives Kuryakin an annoyed look for changing the subject._

_"There is a certain club in Istanbul that we suspect is a front for an anti-democratic organization."_

_Kuryakin's face turns particularly unimpressed. Even with his usual blank expression, there is something about the turn of his brows that seems disappointed in Waverly. "Anti-democratic is usually anti-capitalist. Why should Russia be concerned?"_

_"Because these anti-democrats are planning on bombing the world's great cities to create chaos and, presumably, rise as the great new world order. It's usually something like that. We're all equally threatened this time Mr. Kuryakin."_

_Kuryakin's annoyed snort perks Solo up again, reaching for the file. "Sounds like fun. Who are we going after?"_

_"A night club dancer named Sandy Wyler." The photograph is pushed in front of them. Solo grins._

_"A very fine choice Waverly."_

_"Why thank you Mr. Solo. Gaby is waiting for you with the plane."_

_Both men stand up. For all of their bickering, they move smoothly - Solo stepping ahead and Kuryakin following close behind. Their heads are bent towards each other in conference as they go. It is unclear, even to Waverly, how much of their attitude is a cover now._

 

 

 

"Mr. Solo. It has been too long."

"I wouldn't say that."

Waverly gives him one of his grim smiles as he takes the proffered suitcase. "I imagine you've brought us what we've asked for.

"I always do. How is Ms. Teller?"

"As well as can be expected. She'd appreciate a visit, no doubt."

"I doubt that very much, but thank you."

The cut of Solo's suit is not as fine as it used to be; though it is hard to tell at first because of the confidence he wears it with. When he thinks no one is looking, his expression shutters into something rather broken - very much like Gaby's. Waverly smiles grimly again, and leads the way to an empty interrogation room, where Solo will recite the plans and papers he's been assigned to bring to them. He does not stay very long after that.

 

 

 

Mr. Solo is on a train, running through a rather rich, green countryside. A pretty blonde woman is sitting across from him, reading a French newspaper. Besides her is a small blonde child. 

His rummaging through his pockets gets her attention: she turns down the newspaper and looks at him. "Are you looking for something?" she asks in a pretty, French accent.

"My wallet. It seems to have been stolen." He checks the pockets of his suit. "You haven't seen it anywhere, have you?"

"Perhaps you dropped it?"

"Not unless I also dropped my watch and my silk pocket square with it."

She and the child laugh: both very pretty, French-sounding laughs. He smiles at them both and settles back into his seat.

"Where are you two headed off to?"

"Metts. We're visiting his grandfather."

"Sounds lovely. A nice, family weekend. No husband going with you?" Solo asks.

"No, Henri died many years ago. It has just been the two of us for some time."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It must be very hard for a THRUSH agent like yourself to find time to spend with your son."

The kind French woman's expression turns sour. She stands, pushing the projection of a child away to another compartment. In her other hand she holds a gun, trained calmly at Mr. Solo.

"You found out rather quickly, Mr. Solo. I'm impressed."

"You did a very fine job, no doubt about it: you took out anything from my pockets that might have been a totem. Very thorough about it too."

A hand comes up to her ear and she turns, muttering into some kind of ear piece. Solo stands and adjusts his suit, unconcerned with the gun in her hand.

"We're moments away from taking what we need, so you're too late. There's nothing you can do," she assures him.

"I'm not the one who should be worried. Your friend trying to retrieve my suitcase is in for quite a surprise."

At that instant, with the dramatic timing of a theatrical imagination, there is the sound of a loud shot, followed by two more. Solo tips his head towards the door. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Loud footsteps are followed by the door opening, a large figure looming in the doorway. Kuryakin gives Solo a quick once over, gun already pointed at the THRUSH agent.

"Doing alright there, Cowboy?"

"Just fine Illya, thank you." He smiles at the woman as Kuryakin steps closer towards them both, expression cold. "I've had a very nice time here - lovely scenery, really - but I think I must be going. The Kiss, if you don't mind Illya."

The last thing he hears is the shriek of the agent before the shot, and he's awake again. He only has a moment, so he takes out the IV with one hand, and then punches the guard with the other. The stolen moment is enough for him to grab his gun, and finish the guard off before he can call attention to his escape. It gives him just enough time to get away, taking his things as he goes away. 

 

 

 

"Napoleon! Napoleon, I know you can hear me. Please stop. These aren't my running heels."

Solo stops obligingly by the door, allowing Gaby to catch up to him. For her, he gives his best smile. "Ms. Teller, how are you?"

"Better than you. When did you last eat?"

"This morning."

She scoffs. "You're supposed to be a good liar. Come, we'll go to the cafeteria and fill you up while you tell me about your adventures. I could use some happy stories."

He follows her obligingly down the hall and into the U.N.C.L.E. cafeteria, taking a seat while she picks out what he's going to eat. When she comes back, she has enough food for a small army, most of which she puts off to the side.

"There are only two of us; I don't know how you expect us to eat it all," Solo comments, taking up his fork.

"Habit. Illya used to eat enough for three men."

She says it mater-of-factly, as is the way between the two of them. They make a game of pretending to be fine with referring to their old friend. Because she has to speak of him more often with the other agents, accepting their sympathy every day, she does not flinch the way he does.

"I'm not very hungry."

"That's funny, because you look very hungry." She reaches out and grabs his chin, looking straight at him for a moment as if examining a troublesome machine part. "You've been going under too often."

"It's all part of the job."

"I miss seeing you work as a Forger. You did such lovely work. This Courier nonsense is bad for you."

"I do as I'm told."

Gaby laughs. Solo is fond of all of her different laughs, and used to make a game of eliciting each one."That's new for you. The obedient dog of Mr. Waverly and the others."

He snorts, and it sounds almost authentic. Gaby smiles at her success - she has never been as good at making her friend laugh. "I am hardly anyone's pet."

"You used to be ours," she says mournfully. "We did so well together."

"Yes, well that's all behind us now. We must look to the future," he lies. She knows it is a lie, because neither see anything good ahead of them anymore.

 

 

 

This new future - Solo woke up in a hospital bed without a scar on his body.

In this future, the bed next to him is empty. During his psychiatric evaluation, he chose to stare at that bed until he is left alone. For 3 days, he speaks to no one and lies in his bed. On the fourth day, he declares himself fit for duty and leaves the hospital by the window. When he comes back to Waverly's desk, he's dressed and ready for his next mission.

There are not many beds in Solo's future anymore. He finds he cannot stand to look at them.


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Solo is whistling. It is theorized that he does this to be particularly annoying to anyone listening.

Behind him, Mr. Kuryakin follows in time with his steps. After a few minutes of walking down the avenue - Mr Solo taking the time to look into many of the store windows, pointing out items of interest to his partner - another man falls into step with them. After a block, Solo stands at a street corner to speak to their guest.

"Good afternoon."

The man nods in greeting. He is a strange, squat Polish man, and very out of place on the Spanish boulevard. "Mr Solo, Mr Kuryakin. I wasn't expecting to see you two out so late."

"It's a very beautiful night. Reminds me of home."

Anyone listening would question whether the resemblance to Russian sunsets was meant to be a compliment, from the way Kuryakin stiffly repeated the code phrase. But with the pass phrase complete, the agent hands over his suitcase to Mr. Solo and begins to open it. Kuryakin keeps his back to the street to shield the case from view.

"Everything should be in order."

As always, Solo reads through the papers before closing the case again, while Kuryakin stands guard. When it is deemed acceptable, he nods for his partner to take out his payment.

"Looks like we should be all set. Everything you need should be inside that envelope."

"I'm afraid that won't be enough.” The man tucks the envelope into his jacket. “I'll be taking you two as well."

At once, the U.N.C.L.E agents reach for their guns, but it is not fast enough: a cloud of gas begins to seep from the edges of the suitcase. They fall to the ground, leaning against each other and gasping for breath.

  
  
  


There is not much to remember of the kidnapping, Solo reports. He had spent most of their stay at THRUSH’s local headquarters drugged to the gills. Both of them had been interrogated for any information about U.N.C.L.E in separate rooms.  

Screaming, he says, he remembers. It had felt like the walls were screaming. But that might have been his partner in the other room. It is difficult to tell those kinds of things, he says.

The last time he’d seen Illya Kuryakin alive, he’d been bleeding everywhere. Or, it’s seemed like it. It had been a while since he’d seen that much blood coming from one person.

“Still there Cowboy?” he’d asked, crawling to Solo’s side of the cell. Mr. Solo hadn’t responded. With one arm, Kuryakin pulled himself and, with more care than he’d ever shown before, pulled his partner’s side until he was resting on his chest.  He held him there, in his arms, as they slipped into unconsciousness. They bled into a pool of blood together.

He woke up the next morning when they killed Mr. Kuryakin. There was a shot, and as he tried to pull himself from the haze of dizzying pain, he felt his partner go still underneath him. Anything he’d tried had been too late to help.

Within moments, he pulled himself upright and took the gun from their guard, shooting himself only to wake up in another warehouse. Another dream. Beside him, his partner is already unhooked from the PASIV device, lying perfectly still. He refuses to move.

There is very little time for anything else. Solo shoots himself again, to find himself in a hospital room. Two levels into a dream is not something they’ve ever tried before - more stress than U.N.C.L.E allows their agents. He has been kept sedated until they were certain he could wake safely.

He asks after his partners. Ms. Teller was safe, they promised, but Mr. Kuryakin had not made it back. They had not even managed to bring his body home.

Mr. Solo promises that he never broke: didn’t reveal a thing. He hadn’t said a word the whole time. So, Solo explains, he isn’t sure of what his last words to Illya were. He just can’t remember.

That was the end of his report.

  
  
  


“She misses you.”

Kuryakin looks up from Solo’s feet. “You’re thinking of this now?”

Solo shrugs. “It would be unhealthy to worry about this kind of thing every the time. And don’t change the subject.”

His partner shrugs, and pats the ankles in front of him. Solo hops off the table. “You could bring her next time then.”

“I don’t think she’d take all of this as well as I have.” He takes his jacket and adjusts it, pulling a new gun from the inside.

Kuryakin doesn’t disagree. “She’ll think you’re crazy.”

“I think we both know I’m a little beyond crazy at this point.”

They walk silently into the hall, and wait for the next passing guard. They take their time, as they always do now, because Mr. Solo is in no hurry to wake up.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s important to note the part that Napoleon never reported.

One day, Kuryakin kissed Solo. Or Solo kissed Kuryakin. Outside of dreams, only Solo knows what happened, and it does not make him happy. It is the worst part. Kisses in dreams do not count. Kisses with dreams mean even less.

  
  


 

“He has not come back.”

Ms. Teller is the only one who is brave enough to mention what they all know, because she is stronger than them.

“He has not made contact with us since Thursday afternoon.”

She nods in understanding. “What have you done so far?”

“As far as what?”

“Getting him back.”

“Ms. Teller, Mr. Solo has never been the most dependable of our agents. We have no way of knowing if he has been captured, or has simply … left.”

It had been Waverly’s assumption for some time that Solo was no longer in any condition to work. He had protested each assignment the agent had been given. The man had obviously been broken beyond any real use. This was, in his opinion, inevitable.

“We cannot leave him,” Ms. Teller protests. “We’re all he has left.”

It is not ironic that a man so good at making friends had one real friend in the world. It is just a normal, cruel truth.

  
  
  
  


“No one is coming for you.”

It’s not true. It’s not true because in the world of dreams, Solo is never alone. He has his memories to keep him company. And his memories are dangerous.

“Have you heard the one about the Russian and the bear?”

It is not the first time Solo has begun talking suddenly in the middle of his interrogators threats. The man, so used to doling out pain but not receiving it, cannot help but snap, “What?”

“The Russian, and the bear,” Solo repeats, more slowly.

“Stop stalling. It won’t be long now before we reach your safe.”

“The Russian always wins,” Solo continues as if never interrupted. “My Russian always wins. And you’re no bear my friend.”

He grins through the streams of blood as shots fire, and his Russian comes through the door. What they never understand is that in his mind, Illya Kuryakin is stronger than any other man. He will not fail his partner because in Solo’s mind, it is not possible.

“You’re still not safe. They’re holding you somewhere underground.”

“I know.”

Kuryakin takes his hand and leads him through the doorway. “You will have to escape on your own there. I cannot help you.”

“I managed fine on my own long before you came along.”

“And got caught by CIA. Very nicely done.”

They come to an empty stairwell beyond the boots and the shouts of projections.

“The Kiss, Illya?”

“I thought this time I would push you down shaft.  Less painful when you wake up.”

“Need all the advantage I can get, right? That’s positively romantic.” Solo grins. His real grins, the ones he does not give for show, are always more charming for how lopsided they are. As if, when not carefully crafted, he forgets how its done. He has not smiled for a long time.  

Kuryakin only shrugs. “What can I say? You love me.”

There’s a soft kiss to his forehead and then the great shove, sending Solo down. All he can think of is “Isn’t that just it” as he crashes awake.

  
  
  
  


Solo awakes in a pool of tepid water on the floor. One light bulb swings on the air in the breeze, unlit. By his foot is a thick electrical wire, attached to something large on the wall.

He can feel the hum of the electricity in his mind - probably a manifestation, from the wires he still feels on his head. Just the suggestion of it has him scrambling to a wall, trying to find shelter. He cannot breathe, like it’s seeping into the pool as he leaves.

He knows, this time, there is no one coming. When the first steps come outside his prison door, he knows that there can’t be an escape.


	4. Chapter 4

“This is new.”

His attempt at words are painfully smothered by the object intruding in his throat. Solo analyzes their intertwined hands like it is some kind of puzzle. Illya bolts upright, like he has been startled awake.

“You’re awake?”

Solo’s only response is to raise his eyebrows, and look meaningfully down at the tube coming out of his mouth. For some reason, Kuryakin doesn’t get the message.

“Are you in pain?”

It is not worth mentioning the buzzing in his head, or the lightbulb flickering in the corner of his mind. He tries to look more obviously at his breathing tube. It is not worth mentioning his unwillingness to move his hands just yet.

“I will get the nurse.”

Illya gives his hands a lingering squeeze, and disappears into the corridor. Solo decides he is a lost cause, and wonders why his mind is being so obstinate today.

  
  


 

It is in his best interest, Waverly decides, to see how Solo feels before anything else. If he is feeling particularly betrayed, he’ll declare Kuryakin’s rescue an U.N.C.L.E mission. If not, he’d prefer not to lie about that kind of thing.

So he asks, “How are you feeling Mr. Solo.”

“The room service here is terrible.”

As always, Solo has no particular desire to be helpful or cooperative. Although bound to the bed (recent seizures had almost knocked him to the ground), he managed to maneuver until he looked particularly relaxed and bored. A technique usually used on enemies, it was just as irritating to his boss.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you mind telling me anything about your time with THRUSH, for the mission report?”

“This is a very interesting trick. I think I saw a movie about this once. Convinced an allied soldier D-Day had already happened, to find out about the invasion. It’s pretty clever.”

“What?”

“The trick. Well, the whole setup really. You must have some inside information, because the only sheets this uncomfortable I’ve ever found were at headquarters.”

“I don’t think I understand. Mr Solo, where do you think you are?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve kind of lost count of the dreams we’re in. Back in level one, I think.”

“Dreams? Mr. Solo, you’re awake and back at headquarters.” Waverly gets up from his seat and comes to the window, unsettled by the calm of Solo’s expression. It’s not a very funny joke in his opinion, and he says so.

“Well I don’t think this is very funny either. It’s horribly uncomfortable really. Would you mind bringing me over my jacket?”

“I’m afraid it had to be cut off you by the staff.”

“Pity. That was a very nice coat. Do you have a belt then? They took mine.”

“A belt?”

“Well, I’m avoiding hanging myself with the bed sheets. Leather can take much more weight.”

Mr Waverly decides this is the point where it becomes distinctly not amusing. He takes his things and leaves at once.

  
  


 

“Do you know where you are?”

“The agency’s infirmary, I imagine.”

“Do you know who is president?”

“Johnson, unless something has happened since I last checked.”

“Very good. Your heart rate is returning to normal again, and the skin on your shoulders is coming along nicely. You’re doing very well Sir.”

Solo reaches for shirt cuffs that are not there. He has no shirt on at all, much to the appreciation of the hospital staff. He has done so many times since he’s been awake.

“Do you know when I’ll be able to leave?”

The nurse loses her smile, and begins to quickly tidy up the room, no longer dawdling. “When you are ready,” she promises.

There is a knock on the door. “Napoleon?”

Ms. Teller lets herself in. To the nurse’s surprise, he looks embarrassed to see her.

“Hello Gaby. I’m not really dressed for visitors.”

“They told me you think this is a dream.”  

The nurse hurries away from the confrontation. Solo continues to look caught out in some way.

“It is. You look too convincing to be a forgery, so you must be part of my subconscious. Not sure why.”

“This isn’t a dream.”

“You have to admit, that’s exactly the sort of thing a dream would say.”

“He is still not convinced then.”

Illya steps into the room with obvious hesitation. His whole torso is covered in bandages, but he has been allowed a shirt - much to the disappointment of the hospital staff.

“Illya! You’re here to spring me out then?” Solo says with enthusiasm.

“You’re not well.”

Solo appears genuinely shaken by the simple statement. He leans back onto his bed with a visible sag. “You’re kidding. You’re supposed to help me out, not them.”

“I’m helping them help you.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not going to tell you anything anyways so while this is very well done, it’s not going to get anywhere. I don’t even know where the safe is.”

Ms. Teller looks less annoyed, and more frightened by the minute. “There’s no safe. No one will be taking anything-”

“Take out your totem,” Illya commands. At Gaby’s look he adds, “To prove you are this is not a dream.”

Gaby looks relieved by the suggestion. “Of course. Let’s see.”

Solo points at Illya. “If he’s here, it’s a dream.”

There is a pause, and Ms. Teller leaves the room.

  
  


 

“You know you cannot do that!”

Illya had broken the side table. Solo gestured towards the remaining, adjoining chair, but Illya did not take him up on the offer.  

“You’re one to talk. It seemed fitting at the time to bring you with me, in a way.”

“Keeping someone creates Shades. Shades will ruin your mind. You cannot be so stupid-”

“I had it under control!” Napoleon interjects, with almost as much anger.

“You cannot tell dreams from reality.”

“I know dreams!” Napoleon insists, voice cracking somewhat. “You’re a dream.”

Hands shaking, Illya sits down at the edge of the hospital bed. “I break out of prison after 5 months, and they tell me you’ve gone missing. When I find you, you-... you try to shoot yourself with my gun.”

“Because you won’t. You’re getting soft.”

It’s not his finest deflection, and the weird smile he gives - pained and confused and trying very hard, make it worse. Sweat has gathered on his forehead from the exertion of anger. Even being emotional is exhausting, when you have been saying nothing for so long.

“Soft,” Illya repeats. His anger seems drained. “Go to sleep Cowboy.”

“Only because it seems like I have no other choice around here.”

He is trying to sound angry, but comes out more petulant and confused than anything else. Like a child, Napoleon curls up under the blankets and sleeps.

  
  


 

“I didn’t know you could sleep in dreams.”

Illya had moved up the bed over the course of the night, until he was curled around Napoleon like an outer shell. “You are definitely awake. Go back to sleep,” he orders. He’d found a perfect place in his partner’s neck to tuck his face against. He had no plans of moving any time soon.

“I felt you die.”

“And now you feel me live. Very nice. Symmetrical.”

“Illya.” Napoleon shifts, threatening more movement.

“It was your projection of me, I think. I was taken to another facility for questioning.”

The bed shifts again, and Napoleon’s hand comes up to brush at the hair at Illya’s neck. “I should have known. He was good, but he was no you.”

“I will be the same after more sleep.”

Humming, Napoleon leaves his hand on Illya’s neck. “Where do you think the nurses went off to?”

This close, Napoleon can feel the stretch of his lips as Illya smirks. “They know better than to interrupt.”

Napoleon’s laugh is the last thing Illya hears before he falls asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Napoleon briefly references is '36 Hours', for the curious

**Author's Note:**

> me on tumblr [yourspringsoldier](yourspringsoldier.tumblr.com)


End file.
